My mom believed in the number three—three alarms, three thank-yous, three hugs. If I tried to skip one, she’d stop me. “One more,” she’d say. “Or I’ll worry.”
When I was older, she told me why. As a child, her brother Danny walked her to school. They always shared three pats before parting. One day they only did two. That afternoon, he was killed in an accident. She never skipped the third again.
The habit became mine too. Three breaths before hard moments. Three calls. Three kisses goodbye. When I left for college, she asked me to call every day at 3:00. The one day I forgot, the fear on both sides said everything.
Years later, she didn’t answer her phone. I found her after a minor heart attack. She recovered, and we settled into quiet routines—coffee, stories, three hugs. Then one day, I knocked three times and got no answer. She was gone.
In her things, I found a letter. She said the rituals helped her survive loss and fear—and she wanted me to live free. Keep what brings peace. Let go of what brings fear.
Now I still do the threes sometimes, but out of love, not panic. I have a daughter of my own. When she asked why I give three kisses, I said, “Because it means we mean it.”
We carry the people we love in small habits. What matters isn’t the ritual—it’s why we keep it.
